


Just A Moment Longer

by QuickSilverFox3



Series: Summer Whump Challenge 2020 [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Imprisonment, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Geralt tugged against his bindings — metal cutting into his raw wrists, cold and burning — just as he had done for hours, and they remained unmoving and stubbornly unbroken.“Still fighting, Witcher?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Summer Whump Challenge 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861159
Comments: 6
Kudos: 148





	Just A Moment Longer

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 001: Stitches

They had knocked Jaskier out hours ago. Geralt could hear his faint breathing, the soft thump of his heart on the edges of his hearing — almost lost beneath the wind howling outside and the rhythmic slice of a blade being sharpened.

Geralt tugged against his bindings — metal cutting into his raw wrists, cold and burning — just as he had done for hours, and they remained unmoving and stubbornly unbroken. 

“Still fighting, Witcher?”

The man’s voice was as soft as silk, his tread light as he entered the room, one hand running along the slick stone wall to keep his balance. Geralt strained, pressing his neck further into the chokehold of the restraints to try and catch a glimpse of their captor, unable to see anything more than a flash of red as the man moved around the room. He circled Geralt like a vulture, gaze running over the trapped Witcher like hands and his skin crawled with the pressure of it.

He had tasted the sickness in this man’s blood — burning his tongue like one of his potions, swallowing against bile just to clear his throat — and could smell it on the air like a miasma. Geralt snarled at the man as he stopped next to his hip, pulling against the bindings again, fruitlessly, chains rattling in his rage. 

“I almost wish your little bird was awake to see you now,” the man sighed and Geralt’s blood turned to ice in his veins. His heartbeat — turned unnaturally slow due to the mutations — picked up, a war drum in his chest. He became aware of the fact he was growling, his own blood coating his tongue and running hot and thick down his face, pulling against his bindings once more, heedless of the lightning strikes of pain through his arms.

“Such a temper,” the man cooed, tracing a finger that felt damp down Geralt’s cheek, tracing the path that Jaskier’s trembling fingers had taken, shortly before he was knocked unconscious, horror in his pale eyes. This man’s finger passed across Geralt’s lips, knocking against each and every heavy stitch that had pierced his lips, dark thread made darker with his blood. 

Geralt felt his skin rip and tear as he tore his mouth open — skin tearing before the thick stitches would snap — and his teeth fastened on the man’s hand once more, biting down until he heard the crunch of bone. The world ceased to exist, and everything was warm iron and sharp pain, a distant high pitched ringing in his ears.

When the darkness took him, it was almost a blessing, a promise that their captors anger would be solely focused on him, rather than turning on Jaskier.

⁂

“Wake up!”

The slap rocked his head as much to the side as it could, breath stolen from his lungs as his chest rattled with an aborted roar. His eyes snapped open, skipping past the needle held over his head — sharp and flaked with his own dried blood, thread trailing from it like a train — held by the man from before, sitting on Geralt’s stomach, mask covering his features save for the manic light in his eyes; and he tried to see Jaskier. He couldn’t, the collar around his neck keeping him tethered, so Geralt forced himself to stay still, teeth bared, and listened.

The bard was awake, heart slamming against his ribs like a frightened rabbit, small cut-off noises of pain escaping him as he moved slowly, leaning against the wall. 

“I’ll have to make sure who can’t bite me again,” the man hissed, knuckles turning white where they were clenched around the needle, “And if you try and fight, I’ll cut your pretty bard’s tongue out.”

Staying still was one of the hardest things Geralt had ever done. Every inch of him screamed out to kill this man, to exalt in his passing, because he had threatened Jaskier — he had  _ hurt _ Jaskier — and that was enough. 

But Geralt forced himself to still, pressing his hands into the cold stone of the table he was tied to, even as they ached to rip the man’s heart from his chest.

“Good,” his captor cooed, attention fully focused on Geralt and the Witcher gritted his teeth, trying to prepare himself for the pain that was about to come.

He knew the sting of a whip, the cut of a blade, the slow cold creep of poison through his veins or the sluggish warmth of sickness. He knew the choking grasp of water in his lungs, blackness drawing ever closer with every failed breath, and the searing white-hot heat of flames, the scent of cooking hair mingling with scorched flesh.

In all of those scenarios, he had been able to struggle, to scream his rage and his fury as much as he could. Now he was forced to remain silent, screams trapped in his throat as the needle — a burning line of pain, never-ending as the thread passed through the holes — danced across his mouth. His skin burned as it was pulled closed, mutations trying to heal wounds that were immediately split back open, black blood burning his skin, threatening to choke him—

“Think of how pretty your bard would look like this,” the man whispered reverently, eyes ablaze with holy fire, “Think of it—”

Jaskier’s blade cut his throat easily, honed metal slicing through tendons and flesh as if they were air. Red blood fountained down his chest, covering Geralt totally, a benediction from a god he unwittingly courted. The other man pushed their captor to the side before he fell, a snap resonating round the small room, his hands flying to Geralt’s face, cold against the blood covering him.

“Oh, Geralt, Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, tracing his trembling hands over the half-done stitches, horror clear across every feature. “Thank you.”


End file.
